


Where We Can't Follow

by AnaliseGrey



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb is not in a good place mentally, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Critical Role Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I had a lot of feels guys, Not A Fix-It, Spoilers, and it spilled out into a story, blood mention, but then I don't think any of them are at the moment, so much hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 01:32:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: Caleb has a near-perfect memory.He can usually, to within a few minutes, tell you what time it is, even if underground. He knows the name and page count of pretty much every book he’s read since adolescence. He’s got his spell component lists memorized and can tell you what he has or needs at any given time. He can remember an awful lot about an awful lot, is the point.But he can’t remember what his last words to Molly were.





	Where We Can't Follow

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second time I've made myself cry while writing. Come suffer with me.

Caleb has a near-perfect memory.

He can usually, to within a few minutes, tell you what time it is, even if underground. He knows the name and page count of pretty much every book he’s read since adolescence. He’s got his spell component lists memorized and can tell you what he has or needs at any given moment. He can remember an awful lot about an awful lot, is the point.

But he can’t remember what his last words to Molly were.

It shouldn’t bother him- they were likely inconsequential, something about the plan, or a shout during the fight, but it’s needling him, intruding on his thoughts. He can’t remember his last words to Molly, but he can remember other things.

The sight of Molly dropping.

The cruel smile on Lorenzo’s face as Molly spat a mouthful of blood at him in a last act of defiance.

The thud of Lorenzo’s glaive, and the bright red of the blood that welled up around it.

Caleb wasn’t close; he couldn’t possibly have heard any of the small sounds the weapon or Molly would have made as Lorenzo twisted the glaive, but again, his memory is near-perfect. He knows from experience what the sound of rending flesh is, the small noises a person dying by violence makes, and his mind provides them now as an overlay to the images forever seared into his mind.

Beau is fuming, lashing out in anger and frustration and grief. Nott is unusually quiet next to him, her eyes flicking toward the body over and over again.

Caleb has seen death before, has dealt more than his fair share of it, but it has been a long time since it was somebody he knew, somebody he _cared_ about. That hasn’t happened since... since-

No. He’s not going to let himself go down that path because that way lies madness, and they do not have time for madness right now. He knows he’s in shock. He’s not feeling it yet, the yawning, devouring edge of grief he knows is coming, but he knows it’s there, lurking and waiting to swallow him whole the first second he lets his guard down.

So he does something he’s very good at: he builds mental walls, and he compartmentalizes.

The colorful lump on the ground is just a body. It’s not Molly, it isn't his friend. It’s just meat now, done up in pretty packaging. He needs to believe that, because it’s okay to bury a thing. It’s okay to bury an object, a container.

It’s not okay to bury a person, a friend.

So he doesn’t think about it. He tells himself they aren’t burying Molly as the giant cat’s paw of earth springs up at his bidding and starts to dig. He tells himself they’re burying a vessel, no worse than burying a clay pot or a bottle.

They’re burying the empty chest, not the treasure that had resided inside.

He tells himself a great many things, and almost manages to believe them, make it work, until Nott presses.

“ _I want to hear you say it._ ”

He gives a reason, and he knows it’s a bullshit reason. She’s accepted a lot of bullshit from him in the time they’ve known one another, but this time is different, because this time she actually calls him on it.

“ _Wrong. Why?_ ”

And he can’t, he _can’t_ , his hold on the situation is so fragile right now, the tiniest push will send him careening over the edge, and he’s not good with emotions at the best of times; he can’t afford to lose the tenuous hold he’s got on himself, not right now. So he does something else he's very good at.

He runs away.

He needs to regain control, to firm his hold on the emotions he can feel roiling inside. He leans against a tree a little ways into the treeline, and takes a shuddering breath. He can’t break, not again. Their friends need him, need all of them, and if he breaks again he’s not sure he’ll come back this time. He knows, rationally, there’s nothing he could have done, but that doesn’t stop his mind from trying to seek out other possibilities, other what-ifs. He’s good at risk analysis; being a coward has made him very good at threat assessment, and being anxious as well means he can think of about a thousand different ways things could go wrong, though usually that's a plus. If you're thinking about all the ways things can go wrong, you can plan for them, prepare.

But somehow he’s never planned for this, and now he doesn't know what to do. Nott keeps looking to him as a leader, and really she should know better. She knows now, her and Beauregard both, that he's not to be trusted, and certainly not with leadership. How bad have things gotten that it's even an option?

Bad. Things have gotten _very_ bad. Three are stolen away, one is dead, and the three left are a _Gott verdammt_ mess.

He takes a moment, then two, digging his fingers into the rough bark of the tree he’s leaning against, letting the physicality of it help anchor his thoughts, keep him present. Frumpkin flutters down, landing on his shoulder, and bumps his head gently against Caleb's, starting to preen Caleb's hair. He chokes out a laugh, and if it’s a little wet, well, Frumpkin isn't going to tell anyone.

Caleb gives himself another minute, then straightens, wipes at his face with his sleeve, and gives Frumpkin a scratch on the head. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. He imagines phantom lips on his forehead and the quiet jingle of jewelry.

Time for this later.

He opens his eyes, steps out onto the road, and heads towards the horses.

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished watching episode 26 and the beginning of episode 27 of season 2, and while I knew it was coming (I accidentally spoiled myself weeks ago) it still hurt. 
> 
> A lot.
> 
> And so this story came about. I broke a lot of my own rules in writing this. I'd told myself I'd never write something I couldn't fix, that I'd never touch major character death. Well, I guess that's no longer true.
> 
> Title taken from a paraphrase of Samwise Gamgee's plea to Frodo: "Don't go where I can't follow!"
> 
> Songs I listened to while writing this:  
> [Gold (a capella)- Once: The Musical](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYKlt-3U6xw)  
> [Long Time Traveller- Wailin' Jennys](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=we4dvlAd-2Q)
> 
> If you feel like coming to cry with me, or flail at me, or just say hi, come find me on tumblr at [Analisegrey](http://analisegrey.tumblr.com/). Also I subsist on kudos and comments, so feel free to toss some my way!


End file.
